Dennis Wheatley - The Launching of Roger Brook

At twenty minutes to eleven Roger cantered into Lyndhurst. With a catch of the breath he saw that there was still a light behind the curtains of the blacksmith's upstairs window. It might have been any belated traveller who had kept him up, but the augury seemed good, and so it proved.

Roger had no sooner attracted the smith's attention and put his question, than the man replied:

"Yes, Master. I re-shod the off-fore of a chestnut and looked to his other shoes for a foreign gentleman not an hour back."

"Can you describe him?" cried Roger.

"He were a tall chap, wearing a long riding-coat and a flat-crowned steeple hat."

rtBut his face?"

"Ah, I'd not swear to that. He kept hisself well in the shadow. But he were clean shaven, and somewhat pasty looking. Seeing he were a furriner it crossed me mind that he'd maybe landed only a few hours back, and bin down with the sea-sickness in yesterday's storm."

"His age?"

"On the youngish side. Maybe thirty, but not more." "Did he say where he was going?"

"Nay. His English were poor. He spoke little and not a word of that."

"How long since he left here?" "Three-quarters of an hour."

"Thanks," shouted Roger, and wheeling his mare, he sped out of the town along the road to Totton.

It was his man without a doubt. Moreover, his prospects of over­taking him were far better than he had ever dared to hope. It could not have taken over two hours for his enemy to reach Lyndhurst and have his horse reshod; he must have halted on the way, either at Lymington or Brockenhurst, to take a meal at one of the inns before setting out for London. That argued his complete confidence that he would elude any hue and cry that might be raised after him by making for the capital instead of one of the ports. He could not have known, either, that Roger's father would return so soon and release him, and probably thought that his victim would remain trussed in the stable until someone found him in the morning. All the odds were now that, without the least suspicion that he was being pursued, the Frenchman was riding on at quite a moderate pace. And he was only three quarters of an hour ahead. His heart high with elation, Roger spurred on his mare, and rode all out along the springy turf that bordered the road across the more open part of the forest, east of Lyndhurst.

He reached Totton a quarter of an hour before midnight and flung himself off his steaming mount in the yard of the posting-house. The night ostler told him that the traveller for whom he inquired had changed horses there half an hour earlier. His description of the Frenchman was as vague as that of the smith. He could only remember that he had been tall and sickly looking. But Roger felt it pointless to waste time in pressing for details. He had enough to go on and felt certain now that his enemy was one of M. de Crosne's agents, and that he would not know him even if he saw him. How de Crosne, or his man, had known that the home of the Englishman they were pursuing was at Lymington remained a mystery over which Roger continued to puzzle his wits in vain; and, had he needed any added incentive to overtake his enemy the prospect of solving the problem would have provided it. But he needed none. Having had his saddle transferred to a mettlesome grey from the posting-stables, he left the address to which his own mare was to be returned, and pushed on.

In his first stage he had covered fourteen miles; his next, to Win­chester, was fifteen. At first the road ran up and down a series of switchback hills then through flatfish farm country. The weather had cleared and the September moon had risen above the trees. The grey proved a good steed and Roger was in no mood to spare him. He was fond of horses but fonder of his country and he was now determined to catch his man, even if he had to kill several of his mounts under him. Just before one in the morning he rode over the chalk hills into Winchester.

At the Black Swan he inquired again. His man had changed horses there and trotted out of the yard only ten minutes before his arrival. While his saddle was being changed from the exhausted grey to a bay mare he took stock of the situation. He had little doubt now that he could catch his unsuspecting enemy on the next lap; but it was as good as certain that the Frenchman would be armed. Jim had put a pair of pistols into Roger's holsters as a normal precaution against his encountering a highwayman; and he was not afraid to face any man in a fight. But in this case if he came off worst it was not only himself, but his country, that would be the loser. He positively dared not risk being left wounded in a ditch while his enemy got clean away with the letter. In consequence, he decided that the time had now come when he must make use of his father's warrant. Winchester was a garrison town so he f Sit that there would be no difficulty in securing military aid there.

Mounting the bay he rode at a quick trot to the barracks of the Hampshire Regiment. The sentry at its gate called the Sergeant of the guard. The Sergeant said that he thought some of the officers were still up, and, having handed his mount over to an orderly, Roger hurried with him to the mess.

After an infuriating wait of five minutes in the hall a heavily-moustached Captain, who was half-seas-over, came out to see him. Roger did not mince matters. Politely but swiftly he stated his business, produced his warrant, and requested that a mounted escort should be furnished for him with the minimum possible delay.

The Captain sobered up at once, and said: "This is an infantry barracks, so normally I'd only be able to help you by asking some of the officers to turn out with their grooms. But 'tis your good fortune that we've been on manoeuvres recently, and a squadron of Dragoons are quartered here as our guests. Have the goodness to wait here a few moments and I'll fetch one of their officers. He is having the devil's own luck at the cards to-night, so you'll be doing us a favour, Sir, if you'll relieve us of him and prevent his further inroads on our pockets''

Again Roger had to submit to seeing a few more precious moments slip away. Then one of the big double doors of the ante-room opened again and the Captain returned, accompanied by a thick-set, red-faced young man with a crop of ginger curls. To Roger's amazement he found himself face to face with, his old enemy of Sherborne days, George Gunston.

Recognition was mutual for, at that second, Gunston cried: "Why, damn my soul! If it isn't Bookworm Brook!"

Roger flushed slightly and replied: "I have no time for exchanging compliments, but if you have a mind to it I will find plenty later on at any time and place you may suggest."

"I see that you are already acquainted," murmured the Captain, a trifle uneasily.

"By God! The fellow's challenging me!" exploded Gunston, going redder in the face than ever.

"Not at the moment," said Roger sharply. "The Captain, here, will have told you what's afoot. I am on the King's service and require a troop of horse to accompany me instantly. I pray you, Mr. Gunston, let our personal prejudices lie dormant for this night, at least; and give me your aid without demur."

"On the King's service," muttered Gunston, bringing his heels together with a click and bowing. "So he it, Mr. Brook. Be pleased to come with me."

Much as Roger disliked Gunston he had to admit that he was a good officer. Within twelve minutes he had his troop of Dragoons roused from their sleep, out of their barrack room and mounted. He gave a sharp word of command and, with Roger beside him, wheeled his horse. With the clatter of hooves and the jingling of sabres behind them, they trotted out of the barrack gates and took the London road.

Roger reckoned that his enforced delay to secure an escort had cost him a little over twenty minutes, so his enemy now had half an hour's lead over him again; but he* thought that with luck they might catch up with him before he reached Alton.